


Everyday

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Eliot Waugh's Signature Hand Grab, M/M, Where things are less dangerous and a little brighter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: 5 times Eliot takes Quentin's hand.And one time Quentin takes his.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Everyday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Accal1a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accal1a/gifts).



> With dino love!
> 
> Thank you grimweather for betaing!

**I:**  
“Okay, hey, come on, come with us,” and oh, it’s Eliot, Eliot’s here, slinging one arm around Quentin’s shoulders, taking his hand like he’s going to guide him down the steps, which — yeah, he kind of is doing, so. That’s fair.

“Jesus, you didn’t tell me you were _dangerous,_ ” he’s muttering to himself from above Quentin’s head, glancing warily around like there could be a monster, a Beast, waiting at the bottom of the steps or behind the magically pruned hedges.

Are they magically pruned? Maybe not. Maybe they hire regular people to prune hedges. Like, who’d want to spend their life cutting little bits off plants with magic? Might as well bring people in from the outside and just memory-wipe them before they go. Like that guy from Doctor Who who guarded the Black Archive — what was it? Worked there 10 years, still thought it was his first day on the job.

Quentin thinks that kind of memory wipe would be pretty nice right about now.

Except — Eliot’s here. And that’s, you know. That’s good. Quentin doesn’t want to forget that Eliot came to get him, that he carefully herded him and Alice across campus, the feeling of his fingers curled around Quentin’s like he’s scared to let go.

...is he scared to let go? Quentin frowns a bit. Looks up at Eliot’s face, a little worried, a little angry, for some reason. And — oh, he’s talking to him, a concerned “Quentin? Hey, you with me here? Quentin!” finally breaking through the haze.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Quentin guesses.

“Uh-huh, you look fine,” Eliot says. But he’s less worried now that Quentin replied, he thinks. “We’re taking you to the Cottage for a bit, and you can have a nice posset and relax, okay? Or maybe just some tea,” he rescinds with a glance, frown deepening again. “Would you like that?”

“Yeah, um, that sounds. Sounds nice,” Quentin says, dully aware that that’s what’s going to happen no matter if he agrees or not, and lets himself be shepherded.

**II:**  
“Quentin — hi Alice — I need you for something this instant,” Eliot says, looking frazzled as he strides across the room, grabs Quentin’s hand, and starts immediately pulling him back the way he came.

“Uh, hi, hold on, sorry,” Quentin says to Eliot, then, “sorry,” he says to Alice, leaning to set down his drink even as Eliot’s impatiently pulling him further away. “I’ll be right back,” over his shoulder as he staggers out of the room, catching himself on the doorway to call back at her bewildered look, “probably!”

Eliot seems hell-bent on going — wherever the fuck it is they’re going, without waiting for Quentin to catch up, having released his hand to take the stairs two at a time. They’re probably heading to his room then.

“So,” he starts, pausing outside his door with a hand already turning the doorknob but hesitating to push it open, “just um, keep an open mind.” So like, the most encouraging thing he could’ve said, really.

But when he opens the door, it’s not honestly all that surprising, considering. You know. _Eliot._

His room is full of clothes. Not like — there are a lot of clothes in it, okay, that’s what his room is always like. But they are literally _everywhere,_ levitating at all heights, folded and scattered on every surface, shuffling themselves into different combinations, filling up the space.

“Uh,” Quentin feels himself gaping, “what the hell?”

Spinning in front of him, holding out his hands in a _hold please,_ Eliot explains, if a little frantically. “Okay, so, I told you about Mike, right, that guy I met, well, um, he’s taking me out to dinner tonight, and I don’t know what to wear.”

Quentin huffs. Seriously? _This_ is the big emergency? Fucking Mike always making Quentin’s fucking life fucking harder. “I’ll take _you_ out to dinner,” he mutters mutinously under his breath, and studiously ignores what he just said. “And you’re asking me? Isn’t this more Margo’s wheelhouse, or like, literally anyone else?”

“That’s exactly it,” Eliot says, running his hands through his hair. Ah, so that’s how it got so messy. He’s — remarkably on edge about this. “Mike doesn’t know about fashion, so I need someone who thinks like he does to tell me what they think looks good, and I can wear that. So, Quentin,” he says expectantly, “what catches your eye?”

Quentin considers his options.

He does not like Mike.

He could tell Eliot to wear something weird and maybe scare the guy off.

But he _does_ like Eliot.

So he should probably not try to sabotage a date with the first guy to make Eliot this flustered.

As much as he may want to.

“Um, that brown vest thingy with the pockets and black shirt and checkerboard tie you wore the other day was good. I liked that one,” he says, resigned.

“Where?” Eliot turns around, looking for the pieces he mentioned in the floating mess.

“I dunno, don’t you know where everything is?”

A curious look, and for the first time today it feels like Eliot is actually looking _at_ him. “You — just remembered that? Without seeing it.”

Quentin shrugs. “It looked nice. Can I go now?”

“Yeah, yes. You can go.” He’s back to being distracted by the clothes, waving his hands like a conductor to swing swaths of cloth this way and that. All this work. Just to fuck fucking Mike. Eliot looks back as Quentin turns to leave, though. “Thanks, Q.”

**III:**  
“Quentinquentinquentincomeoncomeoncomeon!”

Oh shit, that’s never a good sign, the delighted laughter, the approaching footsteps scurrying through the waving grass, and as Quentin wheels around to pinpoint the source, they barrel out of a narrow space between two tall bushes, a blur of colorful clothes and flushed cheeks headed straight for him.

“There you are!” Eliot snatches his hand, and Quentin stumbles a little as he finds himself suddenly moving at high speed without the say-so of his legs.

“Get moving!” Margo catches him, evening the pull by latching onto his other hand as they yank him across campus.

“What the fuck, guys?” He gasps, already breathing heavily at the unexpected sprint.

“You’ll see,” Eliot grins, curls whipping about his face, and he should really smile like that more often, it’s a great smile, especially with the way his cheeks are flushed a dark pink from exertion — 

“You’re gonna love this, like nerdgasm all over the place, it’ll be great!” Margo giggles, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand.

As the grass blurs beneath their feet and his palms start to sweat embarrassingly in his friends’ grasp, Quentin focuses on running. He barely even notices when they skid to a stop at the edge of a clearing by the Nature Kids’ Treehouse, only the tight hold on his hands yanking him back from stepping farther than he should.

And it’s a good thing, because in front of him is a loosely delineated ring where the grass has been cleared away, and in the dust lie wide, arcing sketches that look like some kind of summoning circle.

“What’s going on?” he whispers, instinctively falling in with the hushed voices of the gathered crowd of students as they watch Fogg and some of campus’ best Nature seniors cast on the opposite side of the ring.

“It’s called a conjure,” Margo whispers back excitedly. “They’re almost done, just another couple Poppers and…” she trails off, waiting for the event itself to finish the thought for her.

And oh, but it _does._

One moment, Quentin’s staring at a large, empty patch of dirt. The next, he’s taking a stumbling step back, craning his neck up, not even needing to shield his eyes from the bright sunny sky because there is an _actual motherfucking dinosaur less than 100 feet away from him and blocking the sun._

A murmur ripples through the assembled crowd, and then a cheer, as the creature snaps its long jaws in their direction and swishes its tail while it takes a few lumbering steps. Those claws look sharp.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Quentin hears himself saying softly, watching in awe, and swallows to see if he can get more coherent words to come out instead. “Why, um, why isn’t it doing anything?”

Eliot leans in to answer over the now-raucous chatter of the crowd. “Conjures aren’t technically here,” he answers. “More of a projection. It can’t leave the circle, but it could still trample you if you go in there, so no funny ideas.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Quentin lets himself stare a little more, taking in the crested snout, small but abundant teeth, strong arms held relaxed beneath a long neck. A goddamn _dinosaur._ What else is this place gonna throw at him next?

Which reminds him — glancing at Eliot out of the corner of his eye, he’s glad to see his eyes shining, a slack grin on his face as he looks up at the creature. This is the happiest he’s seen Eliot since that disastrous third date with Mike, since he found out he’d been charmed by the Beast in disguise and Eliza — no, Jane Chatwin, because of course — had vanished, taking the poor bastard with her.

Smile growing, Quentin lets himself squeeze Eliot’s hand where it’s still clasped in his, and soaks in the moment of having his two best friends on either side of him while a technically extinct creature leaves giant footprints in the sand.

**IV:**  
“Q!”

“Incoming,” Kady mutters, a rakish grin on her face as she settles back to observe the proceedings.

“Sorry,” Quentin says in advance, already standing up from the couch next to her because he knows what’s about to happen. “Talk more later?” he offers, holding out a hand for Eliot, who sweeps up to his side and hauls him away with a quick “ _Ave atque vale,_ Kady darling.”

“What’s up, El?” As they turn the corner to exit the Cottage the back way.

Eliot pivots so he’s walking backwards, raising his eyebrows mischievously as he drags Quentin across the backyard towards a glowing portal. “It’s a surprise. And you don’t get to say no. But it won’t take long, promise.”

Sighing as he gets pushed through the portal, Quentin stumbles to a stop in an alleyway off a busy street. Margo catches him before he can get too far away — “Careful, puppy, we’ve got an invisibility shield up but it doesn’t go that far.”

“Okay, what — where, um —” Before he can get through asking his question, the shop names across the street catch his eye. “LA Road Thrift — did you just portal us to Los Angeles?”

“Mm. Potentially,” Eliot hums, guiding him by the shoulders around the side of what must be the invisibility shield.

“I — okay. Um. Why.”

“You know how we said we were all too drunk to remember that party last week?” Margo says slyly, leading them out into the hustle and bustle of the city sidewalk. “We lied. And _someone_ had too much rum and let slip when their birthday was,” she finishes with an exaggerated pout, and Quentin groans as he’s tugged onto the crosswalk towards a fancy-looking thrift store.

Tomorrow, is the thing. His birthday is tomorrow. He usually tries to ignore it, wanting to dodge awkward phone calls from family he barely speaks to, the fact that only Julia and James ever showed up so it was basically like any other day, and the feeling like he was supposed to be _doing something_ about it that no one had ever explained to him. And this year, well — he has even more he can’t talk about with family, Julia doesn’t want to hear from him, who knows what happened to poor James, and with everything else going on, he kind of thought he’d just...eat some ice cream or something? Or like, skip class?

And — the door swings wide under Margo’s aggressive push, and shuts behind them with finality — besides, what is their obsession with buying Quentin clothes? He already _has_ clothes. So he rolls his eyes, and generally refuses to be any more helpful than holding out his forearms like a coat rack. Eliot and Margo seem perfectly content to run around the store themselves, bringing back various items to add to the pile. Like busy little squirrels storing nuts for the winter, because who knows how long it’ll be before Quentin lets them do this again.

Eventually, feet starting to ache as he restlessly shifts back and forth, the hangers digging into the meat of his arms, they declare him done.

“Great,” he says, without much enthusiasm. “Can we go?”

Unfortunately, it’s as Quentin feared — they both turn to look at him, aghast. “Not before you’ve tried them on, goodness no,” Eliot corrects, and steers him towards a fitting room.

He sighs. It’s not unexpected, really. “Fine. But I’m only showing you the things I already like, and you aren’t allowed to bring me anything new.” El nods and smiles far too quickly for Quentin’s liking, but, well. Just because they’ll bring him new stuff doesn’t mean he has to look at it.

Something strange happens when he starts to try on clothes from the pile he made in the fitting room, immediately removing most things to be dumped in a new pile, and occasionally stepping out to show Margo and Eliot like he’s a kid being taken shopping by his parents. It starts to be — kind of fun?

At least, he kind of likes seeing what they picked out for him. A few items were clearly planted as jokes — he hopes — like a mustard yellow jumpsuit, but patterns start to emerge the more he digs through the pile. It’s all — really soft. Dark colors, earth tones, well-worn denim. Things that fit, that he might actually wear.

What really gets him is the reaction each time he steps out from behind the curtain. They like — actually _applaud._ One time he wears out only a black vest with a deep v-neck, intending to make a joke about dressing like Penny, but the way Eliot’s eyes slowly widen sends him scampering back into the room to hide a suddenly all-too-visible blush.

The pile diminishes, and as Quentin finds himself reaching for the next thing to discover that it’s the last — he’s a little. Disappointed? Huh.

He changes into and out of the last item accompanied by Margo cackling at something outside, and allows his small smile to remain when he exits with about four garments in tow.

“Now see, wasn’t that fun?” Eliot coos, a hand resting on the small of Quentin’s back as they make their way back towards the portal.

“It, um. Yeah, actually. Thanks guys,” Quentin says, and Eliot looks at him in surprise, while Margo punches him in the arm with a pleased laugh.

“Oh. You’re welcome,” Eliot says, looking thrown off, but he puts his arm across Quentin’s shoulders once they’re back on campus, so he figures it’s the good kind.

**V:**  
“Walk with me, Q.”

“Oh, um — but — bye, Dean Fogg —” Quentin says over his shoulder, trying not to trip as Eliot’s cool hand tugs him away from a conversation that was admittedly not super important, nor super pleasant, but also not, like, the best to leave right in the middle of. He takes in the Dean’s composed-hurricane expression and is about to say as much to Eliot, when he catches the look on his face and decides against it.

His face is calm, set, but — too carefully. El only looks like that when it’s taking a lot of effort to keep it that way. Quentin’s usual words of bemused resignation wither on his tongue, and he adjusts his grip, lacing their fingers together so he’s walking next to Eliot instead of being dragged behind him by the fingers.

Eliot spares a single, quick glance to the side, takes in their clasped hands and Quentin’s probably too-worried face. His gaze resolutely fixes itself forwards again as they approach the woods at the edge of campus, but he slows down to a walking speed more comfortable for Quentin’s build.

Quentin lets himself swing their joined hands a little. Hoping it’s comforting, but also just that — it feels nice, walking _with_ Eliot, not just trailing behind to wherever he wants to go. And he waits for him to speak first, which doesn’t take long.

They get to the edge of the treeline, and Quentin steers them to the trail heading right. It rained yesterday, so the left trail will be all muddy by the stream, while the right one stays level for most of the way. As the quiet buzz of campus fades behind them, Eliot says, “I had a fight with Margo.”

Oh, shit.

“About what?” he asks, proud of himself for saying that instead of the less-helpful thing he was thinking.

“Something,” El shakes his head, sighing a little, “stupid, really. But I was a little more high at the time than I thought and I only just realized what exactly I said, and now she’s not picking up the phone, so here I am.”

Oh. Okay. So this is — okay. This is different from Eliot grabbing his hand because he wants his opinion on clothes, or to take him to some event, or — or because he wants company and Quentin’s around. This feels like. Like Eliot’s asking for help.

Like he’s asking _Quentin_ for help. With _Margo._

“Okay, yeah. Well, I’m here, and that sucks that you guys are, um, fighting, I don’t think I’ve seen that before.”

“You haven’t,” Eliot says as he steps delicately over a fallen tree, looking like he wants to smile but isn’t sure it’ll come out right. “We don’t usually let the children see when Mummy and Daddy are having a spat.” The quip falls very flat; luckily Quentin has the mind not to mention it.

“You can,” he does say, registering the opening. “When — if, you know, you want to. Share with someone. You can share with me.” He narrowly avoids saying _or someone else,_ as presumptuous as it feels not to, because like, here Eliot is, he _is_ sharing with Quentin, so it’s not like, a huge leap. Or, any size of leap, really. More of a — a next step. Forward motion.

Eliot squeezes his hand, surprising him with a caress along the ridge of his thumb. He’d almost forgotten their fingers were still interlocked, the way they’ve fallen into step beside one another, arms swinging comfortably to the same rhythm. A gentle, comforting pressure cradled in Quentin’s palm. Like he's carrying something precious.

“I’d,” Eliot cuts himself off and looks away, into the trees, and Quentin can see the sharp line of his throat bob with a swallow against the backdrop of greenery. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

And he starts to tell Quentin what happened, what actually happened instead of vague, sweeping summaries, and though his voice is rough and his eyes are bright, a gentle smile hovers around his cheeks when Quentin answers back.

They don’t let go until they arrive back at the Cottage after dark, parting ways with an encouraging nod for Eliot to knock quietly on Margo’s door. The memory of his hand in Quentin’s lingers until he falls asleep.

**+1:**  
“Hey, El,” Quentin said, trying and failing to keep a grin from taking over his face.

Eliot stops in the hallway in front of where Quentin leans oh-so-casually against his door. His eyes narrow suspiciously, but when Quentin just reaches out to take his hand, Eliot lets himself be led inside.

He’s pulled straight into a sloppy, searing kiss as soon as the door clicks shut, Quentin’s heart thumping with the exciting newness of this, getting to do this with Eliot, whatever they are to each other. They haven’t really figured out that part, but — there’ll be time, even if Margo is still bothering them about being complete imbeciles — and besides, _this_ part, the _them_ part without all the complicated words and shit, _this,_ they can do _great._

Eliot pulls him in with a hand at his waist, tasting his quiet moan at feeling El’s heartbeat where he’s pressed against his chest, all however-many-feet of him solid but yielding at his touch.

He’s still holding El’s hand, and he thinks this might be his new favorite thing, the way he can guide it up to his own neck and Eliot will just hold it there, at the back, sometimes soothing along his spine, sometimes supporting as he tips Quentin’s head back, sometimes gripping hot and possessive when he wants Quentin as close as he can get.

Right now, it’s gentle, his fingers sliding up into Quentin’s hair and tugging softly, pulling back when Quentin gasps to rest their foreheads together.

Quentin opens his eyes in time to watch Eliot’s tongue swipe over his lips, mesmerized. They curve into the shape of a smile. “Hi,” he says, and the delighted word stirs the air at Quentin’s mouth, they’re so close.

Drifting on the feeling of Eliot’s fingers carding deliberately through his hair, it takes a moment to come back, realizing he’s probably waiting for Quentin to say something. “Um,” he starts, slipping his arms tighter around Eliot’s waist and nosing along his jaw to whisper right in his ear, “got some time to kill?”

A breath of a laugh makes its way across the side of his face, followed by a firm kiss to the point of his jaw, then softer ones placed carefully just below, in one of Eliot’s favorite moves because of how it — _oh, yeah, there it is_ — turns Quentin’s knees to jelly, lolling his head to the side to make it easier for Eliot to delicately kiss-lick-bite his way along the sensitive underline of his jaw. And when he finally reaches the very front, right under Quentin’s chin, his head tipped all the way back and cradled in both of Eliot’s hands, his fingers flexing like a kneading cat at the hem of Eliot’s waistcoat, and smoothly lowers Quentin down into a syrupy press of lips — “For you, baby? Anytime,” he whispers, and it feels a promise.


End file.
